“No,” she promised, standing up to kiss his cheek. “I will not.”
Outside the window, the moon was out, a cold, white sliver. She thought of her father’s study, three stories below her now, and the druid’s scrolls, full of magic that she could not read, wisdom she could not use. Send me my devil, dear wizards, she thought again, a pagan’s silent prayer. Send my true Black Knight.
2
Simon looked up at the castle Charmot, rising stark and gray from its misty island in the purple gloom of twilight. Its outer walls were covered with thorny vines and lichen as if the fortress might have been deserted for some time, but the drawbridge looked almost new, its nail-studded timbers bound in bands of iron. Sir Gabriel might be a recluse, but he was ready to make a defense. Even from the opposite shore of the moat, Simon’s vampire hearing could detect movement behind the wall, tense voices speaking quickly, the jingle of the horse’s bridle, and the rattle of chain mail armor. He looked down at Orlando, the great sage who had convinced him to come here without so much as a sword. “You’re quite certain about this, wizard?” he asked the dwarf, half joking. “This is the only way?”
“Of course not,” Orlando answered with a smile. He rang the bell again. “But we can try this way first.”
Isabel peered down at the strangers through an arrow slit in the wall. “You see, my lady?” Tom said, standing at her shoulder. The boy had kept watch here all afternoon, waiting for the Frenchman to arrive. “It is a priest, not a knight at all, and a child. They don’t even have a horse.”
“No.” In the failing light, she could barely make out the two figures, could not see their faces at all. But neither of them looked like the sort of brigand they’d been warned was on his way. The larger one was wearing some sort of long robe; he might have been a priest, but he was taller than any man of God she had ever seen before and broader at the shoulders. And while the second figure was certainly small enough to be a child, he didn’t move like one. “Tell Brautus to listen and be ready to ride out—he’ll know my signal.” She touched the boy’s shoulder and smiled. “It will be all right.”
Simon rang the bell again, losing patience. “Hello?” he called out over the water. “Hello, is anyone there?”
“Hello yourself.” The voice was a woman’s. Looking up, he saw her standing on the battlements, a beauty with copper-red hair, dressed in a snow-white gown—a creature from a minstrel’s swooning lay. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
“I come in search of Sir Gabriel of Charmot.” The tall man made her an elegant bow, a most unpriestly gesture, Isabel thought. “I seek his counsel.”
“And who is Sir Gabriel to you?” she called out loudly enough for Brautus to hear her in the courtyard. “Who are you to him?”
Simon glanced again at Orlando
. “His kinsman,” he answered, hating the lie. “If he will but come forth—”
“I speak for him,” the woman cut him off. From this distance in the twilight, Simon could barely see her face, vampire or not. But her voice was intoxicating, lilting but not sweet, intelligent but cold. “And I say you are a liar. Sir Gabriel has no kin—or none outside these walls.”
“I am his cousin,” the man insisted. “Distantly— from Ireland. My name is Simon.” He sounded sincere, Isabel thought; more importantly, he sounded Irish, not French. If this was a trick of the brigand she had expected, it was a well-considered one. Her father had never spoken of their having Irish kin, but she supposed it was possible. He had come from a large family in Normandy, and all of his uncles had been knights in service to William Bastard.
“Are you a priest, then?” she called out to this Simon. “A priest and Sir Gabriel’s cousin?”
“Not a priest, my lady,” Simon answered, meeting Orlando’s eyes with a frown. They had quarreled on this point, but Simon would not be moved. Not even for the Chalice would he risk so evil a lie. “A penitent returning home from pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I have had a vision of this castle and my cousin. If I could but speak to him—”
“This castle is cursed, Sir Simon,” Isabel cut him off, trying to decide what was to be done. The man said he was her cousin, but how could she be sure? If he really was her kinsman, perhaps she could convince him to help her, assuming he had done more in the Holy Land than pray. But if he wasn’t, she might be worse off than she was already. He didn’t look dangerous; perhaps Brautus could frighten him away. And if he couldn’t, perhaps he really could be of use. She raised her voice, making certain her aged champion could hear her in the courtyard below. “The Black Knight holds it for his own.”
“The Black Knight?” Simon repeated. Father Colin had mentioned a Black Knight—he had called Simon by that name when he was in the vampire’s trance. Isabel’s Black Knight. He looked up at the woman on the battlements. “Isabel?”
“He will judge you, pilgrim,” Isabel went on without waiting for a response—but wait, had he said her name? No, it wasn’t possible; she hadn’t told him what it was. “Perhaps he will let you pass.”
The drawbridge began to creak open. “What madness is this?” Orlando muttered, taking a step back.
“I don’t know,” Simon answered, planting his feet. “But I’d wager you’re wishing you had let me keep my sword.”
“No,” the dwarf said. “It will be all right.”
Isabel watched Brautus ride out on Malachi, the jet-black destrier whose sire had been her father’s favorite mount. No one could have guessed the Black Knight was really a wounded old man from the way he rode out, bold and terrible as any demon could be. He stopped at the center of the wooden drawbridge, yanking back on the reins to make Malachi paw at the air.
“All who seek to enter these gates must face this demon, pilgrim,” she called down to the man who claimed to be her cousin. “Many men have died.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Simon muttered to himself. The creature on the horse was a man, not a demon; Simon’s own demonic senses told him as much. But he was impressively frightening; on his feet, he would have towered over Simon. His head and face were covered completely by a black helmet crowned with twisted horns, its visor crafted in a devil’s leer.
“I fear no demon born of hell, my lady,” Simon called out to the damsel, not sure if he meant this as a comfort or a challenge. Did the Black Knight hold her prisoner? He could smell the man’s sweat from where he stood, and blood as well—the Black Knight was already wounded. But Simon smelled no actual malice on him, no tantalizing scent of evil like he had smelled on the French knight, Michel, the night before. He looked up at the girl again. She was leaning on the battlements, watching with obvious interest, but she didn’t seem particularly frightened. Could this knight be Sir Gabriel himself? “I have traveled far to seek my cousin’s wisdom,” Simon said, starting toward the drawbridge. “I will not be turned away.”
“As you will, warrior,” Orlando muttered. “Just remember, pray, that one of us is mortal.”
“So be it, pilgrim,” Isabel called back. Malachi reared up again as Brautus wheeled the horse in a circle, but this Simon didn’t stop or even slow his pace. Her cousin, if he was that truly, was brave if nothing else. If he really didn’t have a sword, Brautus could cut him down easily, even wounded. But she found herself rather hoping he would not. “I shall pray for you,” she said, hoping the Black Knight could hear. Whoever this Simon might be, she didn’t think he meant them harm. And she found that she wanted to know him, cousin or not. It had been so long since she had met anybody, so long since she had seen any man who wasn’t Brautus or some other woman’s husband. And if he were brave enough to face down a demon without so much as a slingshot to use in his defense, he might actually have a chance against Michel, assuming she could convince him to fight him.
“Thank you, my lady,” Simon said, hoping she was sincere. He had an idea that if the man on the horse thought she wanted Simon to pass, he would allow it. But what about the horse?